


Night Rota

by DistantStorm



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, Frenemies with Benefits, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, The Red War, Vaginal Sex, the Farm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 01:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18173780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistantStorm/pseuds/DistantStorm
Summary: They despise each other, but it doesn’t change the facts. They both chose to take the night shift, they both chose to send everyone else away while they monitor the comms and sift through week-old, mostly useless reports. Together. Alone. Behind closed doors.





	Night Rota

“I absolutely cannot stand you!” She spits at him. It almost always starts like this, with something setting her off, lighting that fuse.

Her adversary stands, hands tucked behind his back, vivid eyes stoic, lips thin. Jaw set “I am aware. I am not particularly fond of you,” He breathes, “Either.”

Still, it doesn’t change the facts. They both chose to take the night shift, they both chose to send everyone else away while they monitor the comms and sift through week-old, mostly useless, reports.

Together.

Alone.

Behind closed doors.

It’s like wildfire alight in her belly, shooting ever lower when he levels his gaze on her and it narrows. At first, she’d thought he was looking down on her, when he looked at her like that. The first time (and second, and third) he’d pinned her with those bright eyes she’d rallied, cursing at him, telling him exactly what she thought of him, of his Vanguard, of his attitude towards her and the rest of the civilians. She’d pressed and pressed and pressed some more, pushing him further and further until his back had hit the peeling wallpaper of the south wall harder than she’d meant to push him. Only when her eyes cleared, when she'd realized what she'd done in her rage, did he make his move: pulling her in and kissing her hard. Seemed passion and anger went hand in hand with them. They're angry at plenty of things. The Cabal. The Fallen. Each other. Themselves.

He isn’t gentle with her. She’s instructed him thoroughly that it would take more than the likes of him to break her. He treats it like a theory.

He doesn’t know he’s playing right into her hands.

Of course, she doesn’t know that she’s playing right into his, either.

“Come here,” He instructs, his voice lower than it ever is in the daylight hours.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Enough,” He says, as deadpan as ever. “Drop the act, Hawthorne. We both know why you’re here.”

She rolls her eyes. “If I recall,” She says brightly, dropping her rifle by the doorframe and clicking the door closed behind her, “You’re the one who was supposed to be off duty tonight, Commander.” That earns her a shudder. Her mouthing off usually does. Though, they both know she’s right. She tosses off her poncho, letting it flop over neatly stacked armor. “Perhaps,” She intones, her thoughtful tone dragged out by a sinful curve of her lips, a wicked righteousness darkening her words, “You ought to consider who’s the desperate one.”

Zavala chuckles. He always knows just how to turn the tables, always plans his power plays seven steps ahead. “You don’t know it yet,” He says, advancing on her like the cat who caught the canary, “But it’s going to be you.”

This time, Hawthorne is the one who shudders, and just when she’s about to close her eyes, blink away some of the arousal coursing through her, try to keep the game alive, the Commander strikes. He’s always had a way of knowing when she’s most vulnerable.

Though, when he’s swiping at her lower lip with his tongue, coaxing her jaw down with the thumb and index finger that so perfectly guides her chin, she can only growl into the kiss, furious at first that she’s been had, but then oh so very hungry for more.

Absently, she’s found herself wondering what it would be like to fuck him with the Light that’s been stolen from him back in its rightful place. He manhandles her effortlessly - she isn’t complaining - holding her up when she stubbornly refuses to make things easy for him, to the point where he could hold her ass in his hands and use only his arms to fuck himself into her.

However, this is not about to be one of those times. He’s told her that she’s going to be the desperate one, so when he reaches around her ready to pull her up, to toss her onto the worktable he’s so diligently cleared off for exactly that purpose, she drops to her knees instead.

His stubbornness makes him liable to explore every option - every angle, every patch of skin - to get his desired outcome. Hers is the opposite. Where he uses every skill at his disposal, proactively, at the first opportunity, she plays her cards close to her chest, refuses to budge. She's always waiting for the right moment to strike. They’ve had several… interactions. She’s never kissed him anywhere but his mouth.

So this version of the Farm overseer, looking up at him through dark lashes, undoing the clasps and buttons of his pants one-handed while she makes a pass through her loose, dark hair with the other, is an underhanded trick but a sweet, sweet surprise.

He gasps when she takes him in her mouth, tongue swirling around him in a viciously decadent motion that makes his hips twitch. She does not pull off to breathe right away, taking him in as far as she can right out the gate. His hands flex and look for something to hold onto, finally finding the edge of the worktable she’s somehow managed to get him pressed up against.

She pulls off of him, licks her lips, and looks unimpressed. “That easy to work up, huh? I haven’t even gotten started.”

He breaks off with a groan when she palms his glutes and pushes him into her mouth with a thrust he couldn’t stop if he wanted to. He looks down and she’s grinning, even with her mouthful. His hips move again of their own accord. “Ah,” He says, when she encourages the motion with a firm pull of her handfuls of ass. “Hawthorne-”

She stills, swallowing around his length in her mouth before working him up to a steady rhythm, guiding his hips with her hands. He becomes lost in the sensation of it, composure fleeing at the way she controls her breathing so well it’s like he could lodge himself down her throat for hours on end.

He loses track of time, of his sense of self, of all of it until the radio behind him crackles. “Patrol Alpha to base. All clear.”

He reaches for the receiver as she replaces her mouth with the warm, tight grip of her hand. He fumbles the receiver. She picks it up with the hand not wrapped around his dick, her victorious grin making his head spin almost as much as the slow, firm strokes she lavishes upon him, slowly working him faster with each pass from base to tip, curving her hand just right to make him try not to groan.

“Base to Alpha.” She pauses, purposefully holding down the receiver for him to see and stroking him just right - just how she knows he loves. Damn her, he thinks, she's a quick learner. His eyes roll back, and it’s mercy and cruelty that has her releasing him from her clutches to finish protocol. His hips idly shift forward and back in a needy cant that does not go missed by his partner like whatever it was the patrol team just said. “Roger that. Check in at o’three hundred.”

When it’s over, she presses the comm back into his hand. He chucks it delicately over his shoulder, letting it bounce onto the table behind them.

“Beta is going to check in soon,” She reminds him, rising to reach for the receiver, to at least move it back into range where one of them can reach it.

It’s a trap, she realizes, the second she’s halfway upright. He’s got his pants pulled down to his ankles, his eyes blown wide and looking like he’s high on pleasure, but there’s an acute awareness, a sparking amusement to his gaze that she sees too little, too late. He changes their positions as if he’s flipping a switch.

She’s slim, small waist, mild hips. Decent ass. But it doesn’t change that she wears standard, unisex Hunter gear - cloak excluded. Or that Zavala can plunge his hand down the front of them to slide his hand through soaked curls and nudge her clit with relative ease because of it.

“I told you,” He breathes, and it’s a no small feat that his breath is rough, like he’s exerting himself, “That you would be the one desperate for it.”

“Are you sure about that?” She calls back. “I’m tougher than I-”

“ _Look_ ,” He finishes her sentence with growl in her ear, nipping lightly. “I know, Suraya,” He mocks her and she quakes, “I know  _all_  about how tough you are,” He coos, his voice dripping with something molten, almost angry. “That is why it is so enjoyable to watch you,” He rears back, looking down at her, his gaze so unimpressed that she hates and enjoys it in equal measure. He unsnaps her pants with a twist of his wrist, sinking two fingers inside her to make her gasp and squirm. “Fall apart.”

“Bastard,” She pants, when he speeds up the crook of his fingers before letting off right when she feels her orgasm begin to build. “Fuck you.”

“Oh, I plan to,” He says, pulling her up by the neckline of her shirt with the hand glistening with the proof of her arousal. He meets her lips with a bruising kiss, his free hand going to the hair at the base of her neck when she takes the opportunity to grab his exposed cock and give it an experimental tug. “I am going to fuck you so hard you’ll be begging me for release.”

“Don’t be so sure about that,” She snarls at him, their lips touching as she swears, “I give as good as I get.”

“Oh,” He hums, pulling her back by the hair. He knows just how much she loves it, can feel the muscles in her thighs tighten when her core flexes, wishing it was clenching and stuffed full at the pain, “I count on it.”

It takes a lot to wear her down, her inhibitions almost as high as his own. It’s a challenge he gladly accepts, rucking her shirt up under her chin and closing his mouth over a dusky nipple, the swipe of his tongue under the hard peak timed with a thumb pressed over her clit, or the addition of a finger stretching her open just a little more. He’s a quick study, though, too. He knows she loves it when he walks that line with her, when he grips her just hard enough to bruise, when he sheaths himself so deep inside her it feels like he’s trying to tear her apart.

But like this, when he can finger fuck her long enough to make her forget about anything other than the aching in her core, he is able to break her. Able to reduce her to needy, mindless whines that sound sweeter than anything.

He slows his ministrations without warning, his fingers stilling inside her, her walls clenching hard with want around anything they can get. The comms crackle as a high pitched wine escapes her, her dark eyes murky and clouded with lust. Her hand flails for the receiver.

He chuckles and presses it into her hand as he lifts his head from between her breasts, his ear leaving the frantic beat of her heart, rattling behind her sternum.

He leans over her, pressing one hand over her mouth. She gnashes her teeth as he smothers her snarl, only to melt into a whine when he plunges two fingers into her heat and curves them to make her writhe.

“Help me out, Hawthorne,” He says, nuzzling her wrist with his nose before nipping playfully at the delicate skin there. “My hands are…” He pulls his fingers out just enough to thumb at her clit. Her hips jerk and she groans into the palm of his hand. He smirks at her with half lidded eyes, “Ah, occupied.”

She mouths something against his palm, then. Insult or compliment, it's all the same now. She's practically drooling against the his fingers, the hand holding up the receiver for him trembling from the effort in addition to the stimulation.

He checks in with the second team in a cool, collected tone, making her ride the crest of her orgasm as he asks an extra question to draw out her suffering. He's always appreciated payback. When he's finished, her hand flops to the workable, the receiver bouncing onto a stack of scout reports nearby. Zavala smirks down at her.

“Fuck,” She says, chest heaving. “Did you really have to do that?”

He grins, ducks his head. Smug, but not too cocky. The irony of the situation is not lost on her, eyeing the bobbing appendage thick and heavy between his legs. “Did you not enjoy it?”

“Bastard.” He laughs, quiet and low as she says, “I hate you,” But it lacks the bite and they both know it.

“I think you might like me more than you let on,” He replies thoughtfully, using her slick on his hand to lube himself up.

Her tongue peeks between her teeth as she taunts, “Well,” Hawthorne grouses, less haughty and more matter-of-fact, “I do know that I'd like you a lot more if you'd fuck me already.”

“That so?”

She sits up, kicks off the table, knocks his hand away from his length, and replaces it with her own. Toes off her boots while she drives him mad with skilled fingers. “Yeah. That's so.”

“Well,” He says, around an undignified sound Hawthorne relishes with a twist of her wrist to give him just the right amount of friction, “I-”

“Less talk, more action,” She growls, mean with want, and the way he sees it, they're either doing it standing up or she's getting back on the table. There isn't much space to work with, and the cot in the corner of the room hosts ammo and supplies, and the ruined armchair she curls up in when the nights are uneventful - or after he's worn her out, he thinks with a sense of pride - is stacked with armor and articles of clothing.

Trying to be courteous, he asks, “How do you-”

Her grip on him tightens to just shy of uncomfortable. He groans, unable to stop himself at the rough treatment. “ _In_ , Zavala. Now.”

He grabs her roughly and their lips meet in the kind of battle they'd normally have with words. Relentless and matched move for move, each nip, each swipe of a tongue against the other's teeth answered by something that makes them grind against the other, charges the air.

They both like to fight, whether it's on the battlefield, or heated debate, or whatever this is. Turns out, the fighting is good when it's the two of them working together.

Hawthorne holds her cards close to her chest. She looks unassuming and acts like she doesn't care. But she notices all the little details. Her sniper’s patience is strangely out if place for someone with such a temper.

She waits for him relax into the heat of her mouth, his tongue exploring the bottom row if her teeth. When he's engrossed, practically groaning into it, she gives no warning, shifts her footing, and somehow - he underestimated her still, but now knows he's also very sorely discredited her strength - ends up wide-eyed and blinking up at the ceiling. On the table.

Suraya Hawthorne has just manhandled him. He could laugh at the ridiculousness.

He does not, though, because he realizes the reason she'd done it is to climb on top of him and he can't remember the last time someone else offered to do more than their fair share of the work. Also, she sinks down on him so slowly that he feels the stretch of her around him more acutely than he's felt anything since he's lost his Light.

The Commander finds he doesn't know what to do with his hands. While she adjusts, he puts them on her hips, then her breasts, then back to her ass. His touches are gentle caresses, sweet, grateful ones that are so very out of place for what they're doing - who they are to each other.

She aims to rectify that fast. “Hands,” She demands.

He blinks at her, but removes them from the roundness of her rump, holding them out like he's begging for a truce. She pushes against the table with her knees and rises so that only the head of his cock stays inside her, links their fingers, and drops back down with gusto in time with pinning his hands to the table on either side of his head.

He swears and his back arches. She noses the tattoo on the right side of his neck and licks a stripe to his ear. “You like that?” She asks, all wicked heat.

“Fuck,” He repeats, hips bucking up into her. “Yes,” He hisses, almost deliriously. “Hawthorne-”

“Don't worry,” She coos, picking up the pace as he squeezes his eyes shut, knowing she driving him wild. She's good. She's really, really good. “I'm in a mood,” She says, “Wanted to see how you looked like this. Haven't seen what desperate looks like on you, yet.”

She often compliments him - very veiled, well-timed compliments: it's impressive, he thinks - when it gets to this point. But she picks moments he can't think about until later, his brain cataloging her words for dissection because she's clenching those muscles, and he's certain he's going to melt into this table because the only things he feels is hot and wound and desire overflowing. “More,” He growls.

She kisses him hard and squeezes her thighs, holds him still, pins him beneath her. “Ask nicely.”

That pulls him back, just enough. He admires her confidence, but she forgets he’s got a touch more experience. “You’ll have to do better than that,” He tells her, his voice venomous and low. He rolls his hips up into her despite the press of her thighs on either side of him. She’s tensed around him already, so it has the desired effect: her eyes flutter shut, her head tips back, and he seizes the opening, brings one of their joined hands to her center and grazes her clit gently with a wide knuckle. “Touch yourself,” He instructs, detangling their hands and guiding hers next, continuing a fluid rhythm with his hips as if he’s watching the main event unfold. “I’ll wait.”

She cries out when she doesn’t rub her clit hard enough and he pushes her fingers against it, rough and hard and just the kind of friction she likes.

“I have to give it to you,” He tells her, when she’s panting and rocking against him again, her pleasure overriding any chance she has at teasing him further. He can see it in her face, the hazy, half-closed eyes, the tense of her jaw. “Ah, ah,” He corrects, when she tries to pull her hand away. He tweaks that swollen, sensitive nub and she shivers. “You haven’t come yet,” He muses, almost gentle in his delivery. Recovering, he says, “You know you’re too greedy to only have one.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yes,” he replies, pushing up into her hard, bowing his back to fill her as much as he can. Her face falls at the stretch, her orgasm hitting as he grunts, “Fuck me, Hawthorne. Don’t stop.”

She’ll never admit to following his orders, but she stops her feverish, upright rocking to grab his shoulders and push him into the table with a tenacity that he’d admire if he weren’t too busy grabbing handfuls of her ass to encourage her, to impale her on his length as quick and as hard as possible.

Her lips groan something like his name into his pectoral and he looks down, sees where their joined, where blue, ethereal skin meets earth tones and dark curls as she sinks down again and again.

“Please,” She whimpers, when he meets her with a sharp thrust a moment later. He carries on, never breaking from the rhythm she’s set. “Zavala, please.”

“There it is,” He murmurs against her forehead. He’s not so cruel to tell her he’s right, not when she’s sobbing so sweetly. This, he realizes, might be the only sweet thing about her. “One more time.”

She tries, tries to hold out, not to give in. He takes great care in everything he does, help, hurt, everything in between. But she’s no match for his Titan-sized endurance. “Zavalaaa,” She moans when he bites her neck, lathes her pulse point with his tongue. He doesn’t pick up the pace.

“I could do this all night,” He says, with something almost wondrous to his voice. It unnerves her, but does not take away from the fact that more than that wants him to pin her down and fuck her real, real bad. He knows it too, the way she’s hanging onto him, the way she needs just a little more to get her release. “Look at you.”

Hawthorne doesn’t know that she could handle seeing this man plowing into her, doesn’t know if she’d weep or fall to pieces or both. She doesn’t get time to think about it, because he sits up with her, then, his hands cradling her rear, holding her around his length and pushing her further down on it until she bends back and clamps her lips closed around what wants to be a scream. He rolls her hips down to meet his with easy guidance from his hands, tonguing the mark on her neck he’s sure will bruise. Her fingernails score his back. He’ll bear it gladly.

“What do you need?” He asks, head against her collarbone while she gasps for breath. His hands still before sliding up and down her back.

There’s a moment of unsteady breaths, of dark eyes, a heaving chest, a mutinous heartbeat in her chest. “I-” His hands sink down again and hold her up, still impaled as his feet touch the floor and he turns around. He lays her down on the edge of the table, leaves her hips hanging off the edge to wrap around his waist. He nudges into and out in a gentle, deep thrust. “Yeah,” She gurgles. “Ah, yeah.”

He smirks at her, but she clenches around him in reply, and the race is on once more. His hands tweak her nipples, his mouth all but locked on hers. “Close?”

“Mhmm,” She agrees.

“Just a little longer,” He rumbles, somewhere just south of her ear. The lewd sound of slapping, of skin against skin becomes just a little more profound. “Traveler above,” He curses, too far gone to hide his enjoyment, “You feel so good.”

“You too,” She concedes, mostly breathless and at the tail end of a whine, and that’s enough for him to consider the encounter a victory. When he lifts her head up with a tight pull on her hair and plunges his tongue inside her mouth, he feels the ripple and the gush, feels her body tense around him, lets her pull back and hide her open mouthed gasps in the juncture of his neck and shoulder while he rocks her through her orgasm.

He’s yet to last long after she loses it, the added slick, the overwhelming heat of her core clenching through the aftershocks coaxing his own release upon him in a series of thrusts that aim to be less pointed and more soothing, to build her back up, but she derails all that when she grins muzzily up at him and digs her heels into the small of his back.

When he comes, it’s after his vision bleeds white and with a bellow akin to a battle cry. Blood pounds in his ears. She milks him ‘til he’s spent. They stay that way for a few extra beats, her over sensitive muscles clenching around his own and they tremble together until he encourages her with a gentle tap on her thighs to drop her legs from around his back. After, he staggers back, breathing heavy.

“Alright?” He asks.

She sighs, part giddy, part boneless, mostly relaxed. They’ll have a few hours before the morning shift comes to take their places. “Yeah. Damn that was good.”

“It was adequate.”

She rolls her eyes, but accepts the pro-offered hand to help her up. His palm is warm, and he doesn’t comment that she stumbles just a tad. She recovers quickly enough, picking up his sweater to trade him for her pants. “What’s your idea of excellent, then?”

“It comes with practice. And ideally it does not occur in a workspace.”

“Practice, huh?” She queries around a tiny smirking smile.

His grin is almost predatory. “Yes,” He says, casting his eyes down at her. “A great deal of practice.”

Hawthorne bumps her hip against his. “You don’t say.”


End file.
